


Ides

by Menya_Savut



Series: preoccupations with humanism [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Blood, Bloodletting, Chronic Illness, Dementia, Depression, Gore, Injury, Malnutrition, No Sex, Non-sexual Consent Issues, Other, Self-Harm, Vampires, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 16:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13321731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menya_Savut/pseuds/Menya_Savut
Summary: Mornings in December are cold. The sky is dull and grey, and melted snow seeps through the pavement. Sounds ring like echoes, just out of reach. The air tastes of emptiness.Draco knows these things.WARNING: Please be aware of the tags.(This work can be read as a stand-alone.)





	1. Ides

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Please be aware of the tags! I may have used the tags slightly unconventionally, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. In any case, the tags are substantial and pervasive throughout the story.

Mornings in December are cold. The sky is dull and grey, and melted snow seeps through the pavement. Sounds ring like echoes, just out of reach. The air tastes of emptiness.

At the front gate of Malfoy Manor, a man appears. He tucks his hood more securely over his head and begins to walk.

Draco knows these things, knows how his breaths rattle in his own ears, how the soles of his shoes move against the wet pavement. But he keeps walking.

The Manor is secluded, set a ways off from any other structures, but soon enough Draco is surrounded by tall buildings on narrow streets. He ducks into a grimy little hole-in-the-wall pub, orders dinner, eats quickly, slips back out into the night. There are too many people. He finds a fire escape between two buildings, climbs up to the roof.

Draco sleeps beneath the stars.

 

He’s not carrying much; about a hundred Galleons, but it’s enough to buy a meal or two a day. He keeps walking. He thinks he’s going east, maybe; the streets are getting more and more crowded, but he doesn’t mind – it will be easier to hide in a big city than in a small town.

After a week, he knows he’s reached London – he sees the clock tower of Westminster through the fog on the horizon, and hears the groan of boats crisscrossing the Thames. People give him weird looks every so often, but he sweeps past them. He thinks about sleeping at King’s Cross, at the British Library – he tucks himself into one of the corners of St. Paul’s Cathedral, behind a warehouse near the docks.

He’s in an alley one night when someone kicks him awake. They have his wand; he can’t see a thing, he lashes out blindly – until pain slices into his neck and he collapses.

He comes to at dawn. He finds his wand, clutched in the grip of a scarred, unconscious man in wizard’s robes a few feet away. Draco stands shakily and presses his hand against his neck; he finds the mark, but it’s scabbed over. Draco retrieves his wand.

He feels light-headed, like something is clawing at his insides and trying to get out. The unconscious man’s head lies in a little pool of blood; Draco can see where a cut had bled on his forehead. The man breathes shallowly.

Draco doesn’t realize what’s wrong until the clawing has stopped, until he’s lifted his head from the ground and the pool of blood is gone.

The man is still there, droplets of blood trickling sluggishly from the cut on his forehead, falling down onto the concrete that Draco has licked clean.

Draco runs.

 

It’s too bright to travel much during the day. Draco finds a shadowy corner, huddles under his ripped cloak until the sun sets. Then he walks where his body takes him. He doesn’t eat.

By the time the moon has risen, Draco is standing in front of St. Mungo’s. Only a few other people are out at this time.

Draco ignores the display window entrance and sneaks around the back, following his senses. He finds a set of huge double doors in one of the back buildings and enters.

The bodies have been drained. Draco searches, and finally finds the vats where the blood has been disposed. He unscrews the cap with trembling fingers and drinks and drinks.

He sleeps behind a dumpster. He spends the next day waiting in its shadow. Come nightfall, he crawls back into the warehouse and drinks again.

The next morning Draco wakes to muffled voices and footsteps. He peers around the dumpsters, sees the flowing brown trench coats, the glint of the _DMLE_ badges. He also smells the rancid odor emanating from the tips of their wands. He wants to run, but he’s trapped between them and a wall.

Draco pulls out his wand. “ _Confundus,_ ” he murmurs, “ _Confundus, Confundus..._ ”

They lower their wands, one by one. Their muttering grows less steady. Eventually they leave.

Draco doesn’t return to St. Mungo’s for four days. He skulks in alleys and hollowed-out buildings. He barely sleeps. After four days, he can’t help himself. He waits until the witching hour, approaches from the other side. But two of the Aurors are there, and he can smell the scent of garlic they’re casting around the morgue.

 

“It’s nearly over,” says Ron. “Only a few more cases to wrap up, and then the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will handle the paperwork.”

Harry smiles ruefully at Ron’s hopeful words. “I can’t be satisfied until I know everyone’s fates have been set to rights.”

“I know,” says Ron, “but what use is it to lurk around the Ministry until then? They’ll be at it for at least a month.”

Harry shrugs. “What use is it to lurk around at home until the verdicts are out?”

“You could always come to the joke shop with me and George.”

“I don’t know,” says Harry.

It’s nearly five. Ron and Harry sit at the edge of the newly-restored fountain in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic. They watch haggard employees line up in front of the fires, getting ready to Floo home. Mafalda Hopkirk scurries out of a lift and into a line. She glances at Harry and gives a nervous nod; Harry smiles thinly back.

“Shall we go, then?” asks Ron.

“You go ahead. I want to walk home.”

“Again? It’s not really safe, Harry.”

“I’ll be under the Cloak; don’t worry. I’ve been fine.”

So Ron joins Malfalda and Harry pulls out his Invisibility Cloak. He lines up at the fireplace marked EXIT - STREET and Floos out into the men’s public toilet. Harry dons the Cloak and moves onto the busy avenue, turning toward the neighborhoods and the house he and Ron share.

At this time of day, the sun is just beginning to set over London. Harry takes in the shifting oranges and reds of the sky and observes the people hurrying past him, shrouded in the muted shades of winter. He turns down a street and crosses through a parking lot and behind a row of buildings.

He’s reached the edge of St. Mungo’s Hospital property when he sees the flash of blond hair – Harry grips his wand under the Invisibility Cloak and moves forward.

“Malfoy?”

Malfoy starts, his back to a wall and his wand held taut in front of him; he whips his head around but of course Harry is hidden under the Cloak, and Harry gets a moment to take in his appearance – unkempt hair, dirty clothes, gaunt face.

Harry pulls off the Invisibility Cloak, and Malfoy locks onto him, but there’s no scathing retort or hiss or curse. He stands with his wand pointed, eyes wary and distrustful.

“Malfoy...do you – what are you doing out here?”

Malfoy works his throat; coughs once. Finally, he answers – “What’s it to you?” It comes out thin and hoarse, and Harry steps closer.

The clearing of Draco Malfoy’s name had been easy - he’d been too young when he received the Dark Mark; the Death Eaters and his parents had so clearly coerced him that it was painful to think about. His parents’ fates hadn’t been as simple - Lucius Malfoy was currently serving time in Azkaban, and Narcissa was being held at the Ministry. Harry had sat at Malfoy’s hearing, had made sure that Malfoy had the resources he needed to support himself. So why was Malfoy here, disheveled and cowering in a narrow alley?

“Do you...do you have a place to live?” says Harry. “Malfoy Manor is still under your name.”

Malfoy doesn’t answer. He glares, but his wand arm trembles.

“Did something go wrong? Did we miss some clause or something—” Harry shakes his head. “We shouldn’t talk about this here. Come to my house and we’ll sort it out.”

“I don’t need your help,” Malfoy growls, but it’s just as shaky as the first time he spoke.

“I can’t just leave you here,” says Harry. “Either come with me, or I’ll have to contact the Ministry.”

Malfoy does hiss then, curls his lip like he used to do, but he tucks his wand in his cloak and steps away from the wall. The sun has nearly set. Malfoy pulls his hood over his head and walks beside Harry, who leads him to a shabby street of townhouses with rusting fences and cracking plaster.

 

Potter takes him to the third house on the left. He pulls out his wand and taps a complicated little pattern on the door, and it unlocks. They walk in, and Potter shows him to a small front room, set up as a study.

“Wait here,” Potter says, before shutting the door on him.

Draco inhales shakily. He presses his ear to the door and can make out two voices – one is Potter’s, and the other appears to be Ron Weasley’s.

“—found him skulking behind St. Mungo’s...looks like he’s been living on the streets...clothes torn, half-starved...”

Their voices move away for a moment, raise and lower. Draco hears footsteps, coming closer to him, and Weasley’s voice: “...can’t just bring home every stray ex-Death Eater you run into.”

Draco’s heart thuds.

Potter’s voice is closer now too. “But it’s Malfoy, Ron.”

It doesn’t sound the way Draco usually hears his surname on Potter’s lips.

“He shouldn’t be alone,” Potter continues. “He’s too young—”

“So are you,” Weasley scoffs. “So am I.”

They fall silent. When Draco next hears them, they’ve moved away again and he can’t make out the words. Finally, the door opens.

“Come on,” says Potter. “We’ll talk after dinner.”

Potter ushers him into the kitchen, sits him down at the table. Weasley sets a sizzling plate of steak and potatoes before him. Draco stares at it. It smells like sewage, tastes like chalk in his mouth.

He eats.

 

Weasley has just stood up to retrieve the pudding when Draco seizes. He feels the bile rise up in his throat; he leaps up, rushes to the sink, and is violently sick. He grips the edge of the counter and heaves and heaves.

Something is clutching at his chest. It’s Potter, trying to keep him steady as he vomits. Draco’s vision is blurry. He stands and waits for the world to right itself.

“...too much food,” Potter is saying. “He probably hasn’t eaten in days. We should’ve eased him back into it...”

Draco loses track of the conversation. It’s all he can do to stay upright. He feels a soft pressure at his back – Potter – and obeys it until he’s inside a bedroom. Potter nudges him onto the bed, and he loses consciousness.

He comes to when it’s properly dark outside, and then Weasley is in his room with a bowl of broth and a cup of tea. Draco knows it’ll only make it worse, knows he can’t digest any of it, but he has no energy to argue and he takes the food. Weasley leaves, but is back in half an hour when Draco throws the soup back up in the toilet. Draco can barely sit up; Weasley half-carries him back to the bed. They don’t try anything else that night and Draco is left to fall into a fitful sleep.

The next morning Potter is at his bedside with potions; Draco doubts they’ll do much good, but at least it’s not food. He takes them reluctantly and falls asleep again. In the afternoon it’s a cup of sugar water, and Draco keeps this down, but he’s too weak to move. Weasley and Potter flit around his room; he feels the brush of spells and murmured words, but he takes none of it in. The clawing starts up in his chest again.

He’s starving.

 

Harry and Ron sit at the kitchen table, reading a letter from Hermione. Malfoy had vomited yet again last evening, and Harry had mentioned St. Mungo’s, but Malfoy had shrunken away in terror. So they wrote to Hermione. The Hogwarts owl is quick; it arrives with two rolls of parchment with lists of potions, recipes for natural remedies, instructions on what symptoms to check for.

Malfoy looks thinner and paler than ever. He drinks only water.

Harry stands over Malfoy, presses fingers to his neck, right over the little scar, and feels the sluggish pulse.

It’s been nearly a week. Malfoy’s still vomited up every meal, but perhaps some of it’s finally staying down because he’s felt well enough to sit on the living room sofa. They tried mentioning St. Mungo’s again and Malfoy froze up, but he seems to be on the mend, albeit very slightly.

Ron’s in the kitchen next to the living room and the weeds have overrun the garden, so Harry goes out the back door into the pale winter sunlight. He pulls the weeds away from the trilling orchids and trims down the holly bushes. He listens carefully for Ron’s soft humming in the kitchen.

A garden gnome peeks out from underneath the holly bush, and Harry glances at it discreetly. It hasn’t noticed him. It stares out into the garden, beetle-eyes flitting back and forth.

Then it pounces, and the clippers slip out of Harry’s hand and cut his wrist.

Harry curses; the gnome has caught a moth and tears off one wing happily. Harry Scourgifies the clippers and sets them on the windowsill; he’d _Episkey_ the wound shut but he needs to wash it out first. He goes back inside, trying not to drip too much blood on his clothes, and heads for the hall bathroom.

The door is open, but Malfoy is inside. He’s trembling, slumped against the bathtub. Harry’s heart drops. Surely by now the vomiting would have stopped—

Malfoy’s eyes open. He gasps, eyes sliding over to Harry, to the cut on his wrist, and the lights are off but it’s the middle of the day and sunlight is streaming through the window, and Harry can’t miss Malfoy’s open mouth and his lengthening canines—

In a burst of energy Harry didn’t know Malfoy had, Malfoy leaps into the shower and slams the door shut.

Harry stands in the middle of the bathroom, bleeding.

Malfoy can’t digest food. He can only digest _blood_. The little scar on his neck, the weakness during the day...

Harry fights to keep his breath even. He raises his wand with an unsteady hand and points to his own dripping wrist. Slowly, the blood lifts off his skin and hovers at his wand tip, forming a writhing ball.

Harry approaches the shower.

“Draco...Draco...”

Malfoy is whimpering on the other side. Harry’s voice shakes.

“Come on, Draco...it’s no good to me now...it’s alright, come on...”

Malfoy’s too weak to keep the shower door shut. Harry pulls it open; Malfoy curls away from him. He’s breathing heavily, nearly hyperventilating. Harry levitates the blood toward Malfoy. He dimly notices that his wound is still open.

“Come on, Draco...come on...”

Malfoy keens and turns his head toward Harry, as if he can’t quite stop himself. His pupils have shrunken and his throat works weakly. He watches the blood like he wants to die.

“It’s alright, Draco...”

Malfoy leans forward; the blood is on his lips, and then it’s gone.

And it sounds like he _is_ dying, the way Malfoy’s sobs wrench out of his chest. Harry reaches out to touch him, but he flinches so violently that Harry retreats. He goes to the sink, washes out the cut like he meant to.

He goes to the kitchen, finds a glass and a sharp knife. Ron’s at the stove brewing a pot of tea, and Harry sets the glass on the counter beside him, lifts the knife and slits his own wrist.

“ _Harry—! What—_ “

“Draco’s a vampire,” Harry says tersely. He sets the knife down; blood pools on the counter. He holds his wrist over the glass, hisses as he watches his blood flow slowly out. “That’s why he can’t keep anything down; he can’t digest it. I found him near St. Mungo’s about a week ago; that means he hasn’t eaten for at least a week – but he already looked half-dead then, so who knows how long it’s been—”

“Harry!” says Ron, and Harry’s swaying. Ron pulls Harry against him, holds his arm steady. He magically seals up Harry’s wound, guides Harry to the table, sits him down, pours him a cup of tea.

“Harry,” Ron says again, and Harry meets his eyes with a faraway look. “Just wait and think for a minute! We don’t know what’ll happen if he drinks your blood – does he get attached to you forever? Does he get fixated to your blood or something and drain you in the middle of the night? What if he can’t live with anyone’s blood but yours? What if some sort of Dark Magic gets activated—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry says. “I already gave him some of my blood.”

Ron stares at him in horror, and Harry moves to get up again. Ron leaps up after him.

“Sit _down_ , Harry! I’ll give it to him; you wait here in the kitchen and we’ll sort this out—”

“He doesn’t know that you know,” Harry says. “He’s huddled in the shower beside himself with fear. I should take it.”

“Fine,” Ron scowls. “But I’m coming with you.”

Harry gets the glass from the counter, collects the bit of blood off the knife. They approach the bathroom and Malfoy’s soft weeping.

Harry enters. Malfoy’s closed the shower door again. But his cries pause.

“Do you smell it?” Harry asks softly. Malfoy doesn’t reply. “Come on out of there, then. You’ll feel better after you drink. You’re alright...”

“Leave it...go...lock me in.”

Harry sets the glass on the floor, goes out into the hall, shuts and seals the door behind him. Ron stares at him, wide-eyed.

 

As soon as the seal is in place, Draco’s kneeling in the middle of the bathroom, glass to his lips. He drinks until he’s taking in air, and then he reaches in with a finger, swipes the last droplets of blood until the glass is clean. He sets it down and shivers uncontrollably.

 

Hermione sends them a very long letter.

_NO MORE SAWING AT YOURSELVES WITH KNIVES! Go to a pharmacy, buy some hypodermic needles, rubbing alcohol, vacutainers..._

There’s a moving diagram of the blood-drawing process with labeled veins and arteries and little arrows indicating the blood flow. Hermione adds instructions on how often to draw blood, how to store it, how to treat for blood loss, how often to drink Blood-Replenishing potions.

_Vampires can subsist on animal blood or blood substitute potions, but human blood is their intended and best source of nutrients. They don’t usually “snap” or go on indiscriminate killing sprees; even when exposed to the scent of blood; if they reach the point of being so hungry they lose their minds, they’re usually too weak to do anything about it. The only time a vampire is dangerous is if he’s just tasted a human’s blood and the human is still present near the vampire. Therefore, DO NOT GIVE DRACO YOUR OWN BLOOD! Ron should handle Harry’s blood and vice-versa._

The three of them sit at the kitchen table and stare at the diagrams. Hermione has written up a complicated rotating schedule for them, down to the hour. Ron goes out to Roots and Tubers Greengrocer’s to pick up a gallon of ox blood, and Harry goes to Boots to find the medical supplies. Draco takes Hermione’s notes and withdraws to the basement, starts brewing the first of the substitutes.

On most days, Draco drinks ox blood – he emerges from his room before dinner, darts to the kitchen, pours himself a glass, leaves again. There’s no danger in Draco drinking ox blood near Ron or Harry; the most he’ll want to do is kill an ox, and there’s no need for that since there’s always more blood in the icebox. But he stays in his room regardless.

On some days, though, Draco locks himself in his room, and Ron and Harry lock themselves in the study. Ron draws Harry’s blood, or Harry draws Ron’s – then one of them takes the other’s blood up the stairs, slips into the bedroom, sets the vial on the dresser. For the next half hour Draco stays in his room and Ron and Harry stay in the study. The doors are locked.

“We look like heroin addicts,” Harry says one evening. He’s holding some gauze at the crook of Ron’s elbow, waiting for the bleeding to stop. “All of us.”

Ron can only squeeze Harry’s hand.

 

Hermione comes to visit for Christmas. She brings books and the best Blood-Replenishing potions from Hogsmeade. Draco is starting to fill out again.

On Saturday night they go out. Harry wraps Draco up in an old coat of Ron’s, a fraying Gryffindor scarf and a beanie. Draco’s too nervous to care.

They walk to Hyde Park to see the Christmas lights. The air is sharp and cool. Harry pulls Draco away from Ron and Hermione so the other two can have some privacy. They pass glittering reindeer, snowmen, a Nativity scene. Around them, families and children chatter.

When they get back home, Harry brings Draco a vial of blood that smells different.

“It’s done,” Harry says, and Draco doesn’t know how to argue; if Hermione is giving blood, Ron and Harry don’t have to draw as often. He can’t meet Harry’s eyes.

The door closes, and Draco grips the vial in his hand. He drinks and feels like an animal.

 

Draco wants to go back to the Manor, retrieve his Gringotts key and a few items of clothing. Ron refuses to let Harry and Hermione go. On Sunday, he and Draco Apparate to the front gate.

As soon as Ron’s feet hit the snow, Ron knows why Draco left – every square inch of the property is tarnished with Dark Magic. All life has fled from the place. Draco keeps hold of Ron’s arm. They pass through the chilly Manor by wandlight.

Draco leads Ron to the third floor. He doesn’t release Ron’s arm until they’re standing inside a handsomely furnished bedroom, with a large wooden four-poster and velvet curtains. Draco casts his wand around the room and Ron can feel the Manor press back; he works to keep breathing as Draco passes from place to place, carefully tapping each item with his wand before picking it up.

When Draco finishes, he’s collected almost nothing – another cloak, a watch, a handkerchief. He takes Ron’s arm again. They Disapparate just outside the gate.

 

Harry takes Draco’s key to Gringotts and withdraws the money. Draco doesn’t dare go into Diagon Alley.

On Christmas Eve, Ron’s parents host a party at the Burrow. The others invite Draco to come, but he can’t fathom being with Ron’s family and friends. He spends the evening attempting to recreate the Blood-Replenishing potion from Hogsmeade. Every hour or so, one of the others Floos back and pops into the basement to check on him.

They wake up early Christmas Day to exchange gifts. Draco gives each of them a bottle of the finished potion. He receives a pair of gloves, a journal, and a new pair of dissection scissors in return.

 

Hermione leaves on Boxing Day. On New Years’ Eve, the three boys go to the South Bank of the Thames to watch the fireworks. It’s pitch dark and freezing cold, but the sky is soon illuminated with the bursts and sprays of brilliant color. The explosions are almost too loud to bear, but they take it in.

After New Years, Ron returns to the joke shop and Harry returns to the Ministry. Draco prowls around the house. He knows he can’t stay forever.

He knows that if he leaves, and they find him, they’ll strip him of his wand and exile him to the outer fringes. He’ll have to learn to hunt wild deer, steal chickens and sheep from farmers and hope to God they don’t catch on and kill him.

He stays at home.

It’s absolutely pouring outside. Harry and Ron are running low on Fever Reducer. Draco sets up a cauldron, lights a fire, starts grinding up bog crickets. The potion requires pickled garlic. Draco can’t touch it, but he dices it up using magic, covers his nose and mouth with a towel to avoid breathing in the fumes while it simmers.

It’s only when he’s transferring the cutting board to the sink that his hand brushes against some stray remnants – his skin turns black and cracks, and Draco panics – his hand is burning, his fingers spasm. He rushes to the living room, lifts the two-way mirror off the bookshelf with his unhurt, quaking hand, but Ron and Harry are already coming through the front door.

Ron shouts until he’s hoarse. Harry grabs a bowl, fills it with essence of dittany, a tablespoon of turmeric, and two drops of doxy oil. He scrubs Draco’s hand with the solution as Ron paces and growls.

The others sit down for dinner. Draco can’t stand the smell. He goes up to his room, lies down, bandaged hand on his stomach. Harry comes up with a glass of water and the usual ox blood.

“How’s your hand?” Harry says, and Draco sighs.

Harry sets the glasses on the nightstand, gazes at Draco with an expression he doesn’t want to acknowledge. “Ron’ll come around. He just got scared, is all. There’s not much out there about tending to vampires.”

_No, only about killing them._

Draco nods. “Thanks,” he says, slanting his head toward the water and blood.

Harry smiles thinly. “You’re welcome. Drink up.”

 

Hermione is utterly brilliant. The burn heals, leaving only a shadow on the back of Draco’s hand. It’s not the last row that Draco has with them, though.

Draco doesn’t notice it at first. He only starts to suspect something’s changed when he realizes that the ox blood smells slightly different than it usually does. It doesn’t fully dawn on him until he’s in the kitchen one evening, empty glass in hand. Harry’s at the sink, washing out a razor-thin cut on his finger.

Draco drops the glass.

It’s like the bathroom all over again – he’d been so hungry, and there was blood, so close, _right there_ – but this time he isn’t hungry, isn’t too weak to snarl and run out to the back garden, to stalk its perimeter until the clawing in his chest dies down.

He comes back inside after the sun fully sets. The broken glass has been cleared away. Ron and Harry sit on the sofa in the living room, saying nothing. They look up when he enters.

Draco growls. “A vampire is most dangerous when he’s just tasted your blood. You know this! And yet you’ve been mixing the ox blood with your own – I’m not so ill anymore! I’m not too weak to overpower you – or at least to bite you – it doesn’t take a lot to turn someone!”

“The improved Blood-Replenishing potion meant we could draw more often,” Harry says, voice soft and wavering. “We knew you wouldn’t allow it if you knew—”

“Damn right I wouldn’t!” Draco snarls. “The idea isn’t for you to constantly be in a state of deficiency; it’s so that you can draw blood without putting yourselves in danger! Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful for your help, but I’m not here so you can drain yourselves dry! I’m especially not here so that I can drain you dry, or wrestle with myself every time you get a little cut because you haven’t bothered to tell me what exactly it is I’m drinking! I’ve done enough regrettable things in my life, I’ll have you know! How do you think I’ll feel if I suddenly come to and I’m standing over your lifeless body—”

And Harry finally looks up, and his face is a canvas of horrified distress—

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers. “Please...I’m sorry...”

“Alright,” says Ron. There’s no emotion in his voice. “That’s enough.”

And suddenly all of Draco’s anger drains away, to be replaced by an all-consuming exhaustion. He sighs, and sinks down onto the sofa on Harry’s other side.

“You’re right,” Ron finally says. “We should’ve discussed it with you. It wasn’t safe for any of us.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say. He reaches for Harry, and is surprised when the other man moves toward him. Draco pulls Harry to him, presses him into his side, and Harry’s just as thin and frail as Draco is, clammy skin, glassy eyes. Draco leans them back into the sofa, ribcage to ribcage, and winds an arm around Harry’s back, strokes gently with weak fingers.

“I’m sorry,” says Draco. “I’m sorry...”

He takes Harry’s hand in his. His thumb brushes against something – he holds up the hand and sees the faint scar across Harry’s wrist, from the first time Harry fed him...He presses Harry’s hand close to his heart, shushes him softly.

Draco closes his eyes for a beat, breathes in and out. He feels a palm against his forehead – Ron.

“Hush now,” says Ron, and he sounds just like he does when he’s talking to Harry.

Draco is so, so tired. He pulls Harry more snugly against him and breathes.

Even the simplest blood substitute recipe from Hermione is unbelievably tricky. Draco braves the outside world one morning to visit Flourish and Blotts for obscure books and Slug and Jiggers for rare potions ingredients. He goes out in red hair and freckles (“There are so many Weasleys; no one’s going to question another,” says Ron) and sifts through bookshelves and barrels under the watchful eye of Harry. Draco buys old encyclopedias, redcap knucklebones, corn silk. They visit the joke shop afterwards; George obviously knows that Draco isn’t what he seems, but he doesn’t question Ron about it.

By lunchtime the sun is in full force and Draco is starting to feel light-headed. Ron and Harry keep shooting him worried glances. They stop by a Chinese takeout to grab lunch for Ron and Harry, and hurry back inside the cool dark of the townhouse.

The others’ worry is misplaced, however, because by that evening it isn’t Draco who ends up ill; it’s Harry. Pixie flu is Ron’s verdict; Harry is quarantined in the master bedroom until further notice. Draco quickly whips up a stasis potion, and Harry falls asleep immediately after.

Unsurprisingly, Harry loathes being ill, but pixie flu makes his bones brittle and he’s not allowed to do much but stay in bed. The next day is meant to be Ron’s turn to give blood, but Harry’s hands tremble violently and they don’t risk it. It’s a good opportunity for Draco to try the blood substitute – it smells like ash and tastes like tar, but it lessens Draco’s shivers. He spends the day nearly as faint as Harry.

By the third day Ron thinks they can fend for themselves – Harry’s bones have strengthened enough for him to sit up, and Draco’s had more of the substitute. Ron goes out for a shift at the joke shop and a check-in at the Ministry. Harry writes a letter to Hermione while Draco shuffles around downstairs, tidying up here and there.

Harry manages to sit at the kitchen table for lunch, and Draco settles in the living room away from the smells to take notes on _Hermetica_. It’s still January and thus quite cold, but Draco is in a warm jumper in front of the crackling fire, and he sinks into a pleasant haze.

Harry pads into the living room after his lunch and curls up on the sofa next to Draco.

Draco peers over his book. “Shouldn’t you go back to your room and rest?” he says to Harry. “You’ve still got about half a week before the flu passes.”

Harry frowns. “It’s lonely up there. Can’t I stay with you? Vampires are more resistant to illnesses. I won’t overexert myself, I swear.”

Draco takes in Harry’s rattling breath and pallid skin. He marks his spot and closes his book.

“I’ll come sit with you,” he says, and Harry grins. They go upstairs and settle down on the bed, Harry prone on his back and Draco leaning against the headboard.

As it turns out, Harry’s not much for company, because he dozes off before Draco finishes the chapter. Draco closes his book again and carefully moves off the bed, but Harry stirs.

“No...stay...”

“Go back to sleep, Harry.”

But Harry rolls over, eyes stubbornly open, and Draco sighs. The master bedroom is much more shadowed than the living room, anyway.

Ron finds them there when he comes home from work, Draco nearly as asleep as Harry, _Hermetica_ open between them.

“Dinner and bed,” Ron clucks, and Draco shakes himself back to wakefulness. Ron’s brought home treats – rabbit blood for Draco and curry for Harry. Draco goes to his room and sits on the bed, has his dinner and waits for the fogginess to pass. Rabbit’s blood tastes a little bit spicy.

Ron comes in to take Draco’s glass after he’s finished. He scrutinizes Draco’s own cloudy eyes.

“Harry’ll be well soon,” Ron says. “Then you’ll be able to eat properly again.”

Draco shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

And in a way, he is – he hasn’t really felt full since he was turned, but he doesn’t feel hungry either. And it’s not their responsibility to keep him alive.

Ron gives Draco that little frown that he’s come to be familiar with. He goes to the closet, pulls out another blanket.

“Go to sleep,” Ron says. He shakes the blanket out over the bed. “Everything will settle back down soon enough.”

 

Ron’s not entirely right, but it’s really Draco’s fault.

Vampires have a heightened sense of smell. Their other senses sharpen when feeding or in the presence of blood, but the smell is what triggers the psychosis. It’s why Draco never eats in front of the others; when he feeds, he looks like a monster.

The idea of smell is what prompts Draco’s epiphany, however; he might always need human blood to stay healthy, but he could at least make it safer for himself and everyone else around him – he can’t hide forever. He and Hermione write back and forth; she sends him excerpts from books in the Hogwarts library, searches through the Restricted Section for long-forgotten knowledge. While Harry slowly returns to full health, Draco sequesters himself in the basement, brewing by candlelight.

 

Draco approaches Harry and Ron with his thoughts at the end of January. The idea of a potion to depress his sense of smell is brilliant, though the process needed to test it is stress-inducing to say the least. But the possible benefits are too enticing to ignore.

Hermione comes to visit the weekend before Valentine’s Day. It’s Harry’s turn on the schedule.

Before they try anything, Ron and Hermione practice their Shield Charms. The four of them congregate in the master bedroom, the bed shrunken away for the time being, and Draco tries to push through their barriers. The charms hold and the real test begins.

Draco takes some of the potion. Harry waits outside the door while Ron and Hermione give Draco his blood. They put up the shields. Draco drinks.

Harry comes back into the room.

As soon as his foot is over the threshold, Draco’s up against the barrier, palms pressed flat against it, pupils contracted, fangs out. He stares at Harry, doesn’t blink.

Harry’s not even bleeding.

“Draco?” says Ron softly, and Draco doesn’t react. “Draco?”

Harry carefully takes a step closer. Draco groans in his throat, pushes more insistently against the barrier.

“Go, Harry,” says Ron. “Get out—”

Harry turns toward the door and Draco surges forward – he wrestles against the barrier, wide eyes, rasping growls. Harry falters, catches himself, and leaves.

He goes to Draco’s room – what used to be _his_ room – and locks himself in.

 

Blood is shed, but it’s Draco’s – he claws at the shields until the skin at his fingertips breaks. His blood is watery and black.

 

Draco comes to with a convulsion that rips through his entire body. When his eyes finally dilate and his fangs retract, he takes one look at Ron and Hermione and flees to the master bath.

Ron moves to lower the shields, but Hermione puts her hand over his.

“Fifteen minutes,” she says, pale and wan. “We can’t be sure it’s fully worn off until then.”

So they wait. Draco stays in the bathroom.

Finally, it’s over. Ron and Hermione lift the shields. Hermione goes to collect Harry, and Ron goes toward the bathroom, carefully opens the door.

“Draco...”

Ron crouches down beside him.

Hermione returns with an ashen Harry. At the sight of Draco, Harry falls to his knees and wraps his arms around Draco’s shoulders.

After a moment, Draco’s arms come up to return the embrace. His tears soak Harry’s shirt.

 

Draco and Hermione stay up late and compare notes. The next day, Ron and Hermione go out on their date, and Draco shuts himself up in the basement. Harry hovers at the top of the stairs for a few minutes, but finally pulls himself away to Floo to Neville’s flat like he’d promised.

It’s a pretty rubbish Valentine’s Day.

Draco has a second try. He’s more terrified than ever, but the potion’s no use if he doesn’t know if it works. This time it’s Ron’s turn to give blood. Hermione’s not there for the second test, so Draco drinks in the master bathroom and comes back out again. It’s not as bad as last time; Draco paces on the other side of the room, as far away from Ron and Harry’s shield as possible.

“Draco?” says Harry.

“I can smell it,” says Draco, still pacing.

It’s not until Hermione sends back a Healer’s textbook that Draco comes upon the solution – a paste, not a potion, applied topically. Hermione’s visiting again this weekend and she offers her blood; Draco’s eyes stay dilated and his fangs don’t drop. He stands on the other side of the barrier and has a fully functioning conversation with Hermione; he even manages to restrain himself from the vial on the nightstand – the other half of Hermione’s donation. He reapplies the salve to finish his dinner.

It doesn’t solve everything – it doesn’t cure the sensitivity to sunlight or garlic and it doesn’t stop him from needing human blood, but it’s something.

 

Well, the paste isn’t perfect. Draco wakes up the next morning with a headache and finds his reflection sporting mottled green scabs.

Draco scowls for so long that Harry pops his head into the hall bath. He has the audacity to laugh.

“You look like a zombie as well as a vampire.”

Draco’s scowl only deepens, and Harry scurries out. He returns moments later, though, with Hermione’s dittany solution and a rag. Draco dabs peevishly at his face until the marks fade.

He tries mixing a few drops of the dittany solution into the paste, adds some tallow to help the two combine. He reapplies the paste and murmurs a seeping spell to absorb it into his skin.

The days are getting milder. While the others are at work, Draco slides open the window on the second-floor landing and breathes in the heady air. He can never stay for long; the window's in shadow in the morning, but eventually the sun moves out to taunt him and he has to retreat to his room or the basement again. It's probably for the best; Harry and Ron live in a Muggle neighborhood, but there's always a chance that someone might see Draco and recognize him.

Draco doesn't want to hide. But somehow, he doesn't want to be found, either.

It’s March 1st, Ron’s birthday. Ron and Hermione are out. Harry had gone to work very early that morning and hadn’t returned until right before the others left. Harry eats dinner quickly and heads upstairs for an early night. Draco collects laundry in the utility room, folds his clothes by wand and the light of the moon.

Tonight the sky is clear. Draco goes to the little window and gazes out into the deep blue-black expanse. He hears the soft rumble of a faraway airplane, catches its blinking lights amongst the stars.

Something crashes behind him.

The shirt Draco’s folding crumples to the floor. He bolts out of the room, following the noise – he arrives at the threshold of the master bedroom. He pushes the door open, and all the lights are off – of course they’re off; Harry’s sleeping. But as Draco steps further into the room, wand held ahead of him, he registers ragged breathing.

“Harry?”

An inhale – “Ron?”

Draco’s skin thrums. “No, it’s not Ron.”

A pause. “Hermione?”

“No, Harry; it’s Draco...”

Harry’s breathing has evened out. Draco extends his wand, turns on the lamp on the nightstand. It casts a soft glow around the rom. Harry’s beneath the window, knees up and huddled between the unmade bed and the dresser. He glances at Draco, but quickly looks away. Harry’s face is only half-illuminated, but it’s just enough for Draco to see the tear tracks.

Draco lowers himself to the floor and mirrors Harry’s position, leaning against the bed. He can taste Harry’s fear on his tongue.

“Ron and Hermione went out for the evening, remember? They’ll be back soon.”

Harry stares at him, nods once, shakily.

“Do you know where you are?”

“At home...in the master bedroom...”

“That’s right,” Draco says, and his voice thins out like Harry’s. “They’ll be home soon. They just went out on a date. It’ll probably only be another half-hour.”

Harry nods again. He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” says Draco. “Don’t be sorry. Do you want to go back to sleep?”

Harry shakes his head. “I’ll make some tea.”

Harry goes downstairs and Draco goes back to the utility room. He picks up the dropped shirt and balls it up between his hands. Outside, the night is still.

Draco continues folding the laundry, listens to Harry puttering around in the kitchen. When Draco finishes, he’s not sure if he should go downstairs or not, but his own words from before come true; he hears the front door opening and the sounds of Ron and Hermione’s voices. He goes down to meet them, smells the cool air that clings to them, the warm tea. He tastes Harry’s anxiety ebbing away.

Sometimes Draco is climbing the stars until he’s reached the breathless air, and sometimes he’s huddled in familiar darkness _._

 

The days slide quietly into spring. George Weasley marries Angelina Johnson; Draco again masquerades as a redheaded relative at the wedding. He feels bad for intruding, but Ron and Harry won’t hear of leaving him at home alone for an entire weekend. It’s strange, going through the practiced motions of socializing and keeping a respectful image after so long.

Bill Weasley appears at their doorstep without explanation a week later, and takes Draco out for the evening. On a weeknight, the streets are nearly deserted. They walk out onto a bridge crossing the Thames, the glittering lights of London reflected in the river below them.

The saltwater smells intoxicating. Draco tucks his face behind his scarf, obscuring the ever more present blisters that result from the depressor salve. His too-long hair flutters around him and tickles his face.

“Sometimes I get really angry,” Bill tells him. “When it’s a full moon. It feels like there’s something crawling all over me, under my skin. I think it’s my body trying to transform but not being able to. I get irritated at the smallest things, and I lose my temper...I turn into a really horrible person. Sometimes I wish Greyback had bitten me properly, so that I’d be a full werewolf, instead of this awkward in-between.”

Bill had smelled what Draco was, at the wedding. Vampires and werewolves are natural enemies. Draco wishes he’d never left the house. He wishes Bill had never told him these things.

The river moves below them; its little waves soften the reflection of the twinkling skyline into a blurry haze of light.

 

“Werewolves can have children,” Draco says, and Bill nods. “Remus Lupin had a son, and your daughter...”

“I’m not sure about vampires,” Bill says, and there’s a note of something too close in his voice. “That’s a question for Hermione, I think.”

They go back home. Draco goes up to his room, feeling restless. He sits in the darkness.

Draco tries going to bed around midnight, but by 3 AM he gives up and goes out into the hallway. He stands at the little window on the second-floor landing and stares out into the black. There are no stars, but there is the moon, its slender curve hanging delicately in the sky.

Suddenly, he can’t bear to be inside any longer. He turns away from the window, flies down the stairs, and barely pauses to grab his cloak before he’s standing barefoot in the cobbled street.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. His feet beat swiftly and silently against the cold pavement, cloak billowing behind him, until the houses turn into trees and the concrete to earth. He reaches a stream and stops, pulls his cloak across his blistering face, gazes up at the moon. The stream laps gently at his ankles.

The delirium has left. Draco wades carefully through the stream and walks deeper into the woods, following the light of the moon. He wraps his cloak more tightly around himself and moves on. Crickets chirp around him and branches creak in the wind.

He doesn’t know how long he walks, but eventually he stops in a little clearing. Skeletal trees surround him on all sides, their leaves melding with the mist. He stares into the fog for a long time, long enough to register the cold against his skin and the soreness of his feet. The moon hangs impassively in the sky.

At some point, the silence is broken by a voice.

“Draco...Draco...”

Draco turns and sees a glimmer of light among the trees; it comes closer, and Draco recognizes wandlight. The light breaks into the clearing, and Harry Potter’s standing across from him, dimly illuminated by his wand. Draco squints into the darkness, but he can’t make out the other man’s expression; he’s too far away.

The light goes out.

And then—

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

White fills Draco’s vision; it recedes until it reveals a glowing stag, bounding lightly around the clearing. It slows and finally comes to a stop before Draco, pawing the air a few inches above the ground. It regards him with a guileless eye.

Draco reaches out and rests his palm against its nose. At once, the world falls away from him, as if he’d immersed himself in water. Warmth spreads across his skin and seeps into his bones. Draco feels like he’s sinking, softly, into a formless abyss...

He faintly senses something beside him; it’s Harry. Draco closes his eyes, focuses on the warmth, allows himself to be engulfed in it. He lets his hand drop and the stag prances away, but the warmth remains.

The stag reaches the trees and pauses. It fades, slowly, until Draco and Harry are again cloaked in darkness.

Draco’s not afraid of being trapped; he’s afraid of being _free,_ of managing even a shred of meaningful life despite the vampirism, despite the cruel and vicious things he’s done, because if he’s free then how can he be sure he won’t turn back into the man he was before?

Draco hears his own breaths reverberating in his chest. The cold begins to creep back into his flesh. Beside him, Harry is silent.

Draco draws his own wand. “ _Lumos!_ ”

They head toward home.

 

Narcissa Malfoy Apparates into a narrow alleyway. She straightens her cloak and exits into the light.

She walks until she reaches the little cobbled street lined with old townhouses. She stops in front of the third one on the left, raises her hand, and knocks.

A redheaded young man answers the door. “Mrs. Malfoy.”

“My son is here. I wish to see him.”

The man’s face loosens with uncertainty. His eyes flicker, and he says, “One moment, please.”

The door is shut again. Narcissa waits.

The door opens and the redhead is there. “Please, won’t you come into the backyard?”

The redheaded man – Ronald Weasley – steps aside to allow her to enter. Narcissa sees a darkened hallway, a small living room and kitchen, and Weasley pushes open the back door and they go into the garden. At this time of year, the roses are in full bloom; they adorn the greenery with dusty pinks and muted whites. Weasley leads them to a stone bench, and they sit.

“I wish to see my son,” Narcissa says again, and Weasley nods.

“We’ll see,” he says.

The day isn’t too warm, and there’s a pleasant breeze that gently shifts the roses. The air is faintly sweet with them. The smell is almost nostalgic, as if the roses are old friends that have fallen just out of memory...

“How have you been, Mrs. Malfoy?”

She indulges him. “I’ve been well, thank you.”

“Have you settled into your new home?”

“Yes; all the furniture has been moved in; now it’s just a matter of arranging things to my liking and becoming familiar with the space.”

“That’s good. I’m glad things have been going well for you.”

Narcissa nods her head. “And you? I understand you and your brother just opened a second store in Hogsmeade.”

Weasley looks surprised that she knows what he does, but he answers, “Yes, it’s been good. We’ve just had our grand opening, and the manager has reported strong sales.”

“Business should be good with all the Hogwarts students in the area.”

“Yes, that’s what we hope. Of course, there’s Zonko’s for competition, but George and I are looking into working with foreign inventors in the future. We’ve started talking with a husband and wife in Portugal – oh, look.”

Narcissa follows his gaze; he’s looking above and behind her, and she turns. There, in the second floor window, is the figure of her son, gazing down at her and framed by the long curtains. He’s alarmingly gaunt; his face is hollowed out and his skin is ashen gray.

Narcissa stands and meets her son’s shadowed eyes. “Come on, Dragon...come on down...come on...”

He looks for a moment longer, then disappears from the window. Narcissa stares helplessly at the spot he vacated, but then the back door creaks and her son is there, being enshrouded in a cloak by Harry Potter. Potter drapes the hood over Draco’s head, and they walk together toward her.

“My Dragon...”

She takes him into her arms, and he sinks against her. He’s extremely thin; it’s as if she’s holding a skeleton of her son.

“Mother.”

She steps back a moment, cradles his face in her hands, and knows what he is. Her poor, dear son...

“Mother’s here, Dragon. Don’t be afraid. You’re safe.”

 

Harry feels Ron wrap an arm around him from behind and sweep his bangs back. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them his vision is blurry. He sees Draco and his mother, but he can’t make out their faces.

Ron says something and they turn toward him, and then they’re walking away, back into the house.

Ron takes Harry to the stone bench. They sit down and Harry scrubs at his eyes.

“What is it, Harry?” says Ron softly, beside him.

 

Harry had taught Ron and Draco how to play Muggle rummy, in the evenings after they’d finished tidying up. The other two had caught on quickly, and after Ron calculated how to incorporate shuffles and switches the games had become quite intense. Harry remembers Ron’s melds scampering circles around him, Draco holding cards between his teeth while he organized his hand.

There had been a spider while Harry was ill with pixie flu. Ron had been cooking in the kitchen, and it had crawled out of a hole in the wall and scuttled across the counter toward the sink. Ron had yelled, and Draco came running out of the basement, identified the spider, and pounced, catching it in his hands. There had been a row then; Ron reprimanded Draco for coming into the sunbathed kitchen in the middle of the day, and Draco took issue – was he just supposed to ignore Ron’s yell? Yes, Ron had said, it was only a spider. Draco scoffed weakly, it hadn’t sounded like it.

Hermione had Flooed the house the night before exams in a right state, desperate to talk to someone not buried up to their ears in revision. Draco had been the only one awake at four in the morning, and he’d offered to get one of the others, but Hermione had insisted she was fine, never mind, sorry to bother. So Draco had asked what was up, and Hermione said it was stupid Ancient Runes, they’d read a passage by Erthylmew and she’d translated it using both the Orthodox and Vernacular methods, and read all the commentaries on it available at Hogwarts, and even the scholars couldn’t agree on what was being said so how was she possibly supposed to explain it in her exam tomorrow? And Draco said to indicate exactly why the passage was unclear and what questions needed to be answered to clarify the discrepancies, and what information was needed to answer those questions. The scholars don’t know everything, he had said. Otherwise what was the point of continuing to study things?

Harry remembers waking up in a pitch-dark room, the vision of Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore falling backward still floating before him, and seeing the light from the opening door and the silhouette and the soft “Harry?” reaching his ears.

 

Harry breathes in the scent of the roses, until his head is dizzy with it. “I’m afraid.”

 

The sky is beginning to darken. They walk to the door, and as Mrs. Malfoy takes Draco’s hand in hers, Harry’s vision blurs again.

“Harry, why are you crying?” she asks.

Harry draws in a shaking breath. “Can we say goodbye?”

Mrs. Malfoy tilts her head very slightly. “Harry, I’m not taking Draco away from you.”

And Harry turns toward Draco, and Draco’s reaching out to him, and he wipes away Harry’s tears with the palms of his hands.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he murmurs.

Harry surges forward and wraps his arms around Draco, trembles as Draco hugs him back and shushes him gently.

“What’s gotten into you? I’m right here.”

 

Draco thinks of the empty air, the cold, the shadows of buildings. He thinks of brewing by candlelight, the colors reflected on the Thames, the stars suspended in the sky. He thinks of stasis potions, Healer’s textbooks, spicy rabbit’s blood, warmth in the middle of the night.

He holds on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so unbelievably difficult to write, and I still don't feel like I've said exactly what I wanted to say. OH WELL.


	2. OUTTAKES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a really difficult story to write, and i went through quite a bit of trial and error to get it how I wanted. Here are the errors; I'm too attached to them to throw them out completely.

_I had originally written the forest scene differently, which led the story in an entirely different direction that I found wasn’t really working:_

Suddenly, he catches a glimpse of blue-white light out of the corner of his eye. Draco turns and finds it among the trees, watches as it unfolds into a glowing stag, wending its way toward him. It stops right in front of him, its brilliance nearly painful to look at, but it radiates unbelievable warmth.

He hears a sigh from behind it. He squints against the stag’s intense light and finds Harry Potter, his wand held out in front of him. The stag is too bright; Draco can’t read the other man’s expression.

“Hey,” says Harry.

The stag lowers its head, and Draco instinctively reaches out to rest his palm against its nose. At once, the world falls silent around him, as if he’d immersed himself in water. Warmth spreads across his skin and light fills his vision, but it’s a mellow brightness. Draco feels like he’s sinking, softly, into a formless abyss...

“Draco,” he hears, very faintly. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Draco tears his eyes away from the stag, finds Harry in the darkness. Harry comes to walk beside him, and they head back toward home.

 

Once they exit the forest, the stag leaves them and gallops ahead. Draco misses its warmth immediately, but Harry casts a “ _Lumos!_ ” and moves closer to him. They continue down the deserted streets.

Just before they reach their row of townhouses, a hulking shadow emerges from an alleyway in front of them. Draco freezes, hand darting to his wand, but the deep red bloodhound merely lopes up to them and falls into step on Draco’s other side.

They arrive at their townhouse and Harry lets them in. The bloodhound runs ahead of them into the living room and turns into Ron Weasley; he doesn’t look at them, just moves straight to the fireplace and sets about lighting it.

Harry takes Draco’s arm and leads him to the sofa. Ron tosses a bit of Floo Powder into the flames and sticks his head in. _Hermione._ And then Harry is taking his cloak away and replacing it with a blanket, and there’s a cup of fragrant tea in his hands.

“Dreamless Sleep,” Harry says, and Draco drinks. He dimly registers Harry taking the cup away and Ron withdrawing from the Floo. In the next moment, he knows nothing.

 

Draco wakes early.

He’s lying down on the sofa, blanket covering him. Harry’s at the other end, his body folded up a little awkwardly to allow Draco’s legs to stretch out. Draco cranes his head and sees Ron asleep in the armchair.

He feels like he’s woken up inside a dream, as if the world is too sharp and at the same time out of focus.

Draco carefully sits up and moves off the sofa. He maneuvers Harry to lie down properly, then covers the other man with the blanket. Draco goes into the kitchen, puts on the kettle and starts on some eggs. He thinks of his mother, standing beside him and holding the pan steady...

Draco vaguely registers soft rustling in the living room, and then Ron and Harry are in the kitchen with him. Ron goes to tend to the kettle, and Harry comes to his elbow, a thin smile on his lips. And finally a feeling of calm settles in Draco’s stomach – he’s at Malfoy Manor, gazing into Harry’s half-swollen face...it’s guilt, it’s understanding that any innocent blood spilled that night is on his hands, because he wasn’t brave enough, has never been brave enough.

It’s a feeling from before he was turned, and for a moment the rancid smell of cooking food and the exhaustion at his temples fades away and he’d forgotten what it feels like to be human, to resent himself in a simple way and he wants to cling to it selfishly, like he’s always been...

Harry takes some plates from the cupboard, and Draco serves up the eggs. Ron appears behind them with toast and tea, and they sit down at the breakfast table.

Draco cradles the warm tea and thinks of Hermione, waiting up at Hogwarts for news that they’d found him, of Ron the bloodhound, of Harry and the Patronus. He thinks of Bill and his daughter, the lights on the Thames, his mother reciting names of Death Eaters at the Ministry. Ron and Harry are talking quietly; perhaps Ginny will come home for Easter, perhaps Charlie will be transferred to Iceland, perhaps Hermione will take an internship ta the Ministry. Outside, the morning sky brightens, slowly but surely.

 

Draco’s still tired, and the sunlight doesn’t help, so he retires to his room to take a nap. When he wakes up, it’s late afternoon and the sky is already starting to darken. Draco sits in his room and remembers how he was here less than twenty-four hours ago, how differently he felt.

There’s a scratching and whining at his door, and Draco opens it to find Ron the bloodhound. He wags his tail expectantly, and Draco opens the door wider to let him in. Ron the bloodhound leaps onto the bed, and Draco sits down again. For a few moments, they stare at each other silently.

“I know you figure it’ll be easier for me to talk if you’re like this,” Draco finally says. “And...you’re right...for the most part...” He sighs. “I just don’t know what to say.”

Ron the bloodhound waits expectantly. He whines again, and Draco knows it’s Ron, knows that this is pretty awkward, but he scratches behind the dog’s ear.

“I think...when I was growing up...maybe it wasn’t pleasant, but I knew what to expect...when _he_ came back, suddenly I didn’t know what to expect anymore...” Draco chews the inside of his lip. “And then he died, and it got worse...and then I got turned. And I knew what to expect again...

“But then I met Harry, and you. And you acted like something was wrong, and like you had to fix it, and you kind of did, and...”

Draco falls silent. The bloodhound moves away from him, and suddenly it’s Ron sitting beside Draco. Draco jerks away, startled.

“Sorry,” says Ron. “But I can’t really talk as a dog.”

Ron sits up properly and exhales. “You know we were looking for Horcruxes in seventh year. There was...a part of that time...that I left. Harry and Hermione. I got fed up and afraid and I ran away. And I immediately wanted to go back but it didn’t matter because I couldn’t; Harry and Hermione were staying hidden. And of course while I was gone they nearly died about seven times, which isn’t unusual, but still...

“I found my way back to them, eventually. And after the war, Hermione went back to Hogwarts, Harry went to the Ministry, and I decided to become an Animagus, so that I could always find them again. I prepared for months, performed the rituals, practiced meditation, everything. And then I’d finished preparing, and it worked, and it was over. I’d done it.

“You do something you regret and you want to make up for it, and you think, ‘I’ll do this, I’ll do this thing and everything will be okay again, I’ll feel okay again’, and so you do it, you work at it for ages, and eventually, it ends. And that’s it. Your friends have forgiven you from the start, and you’ve made up with yourself, like you wanted. There’s nothing else to do – except to convince yourself that you’re allowed to feel happy again.

“Draco – the vampirism, this isn’t penance, this isn’t Fate trying to make you pay for whatever you did – but if you want to think of it that way, at some point you’ve repaid your debt and you’re allowed to not want to suffer anymore. You’re allowed to develop a depressor salve that doesn’t burn your face, you’re allowed to try for a normal life, you’re allowed to be happy. And maybe you feel like that’s not now, not yet, but eventually it will be. Alright? You don’t have to be afraid of not suffering.”

Draco had been staring at the ground through Ron’s speech, but he meets Ron’s eyes now, and their earnestness makes him look away again. Instead he falls back onto the bed. “When did you get so clever, Weasley?”

But Ron’s already transformed back into the red bloodhound. He lays his head on his paws and gazes up at Draco.

“Maybe you’re right,” Draco concedes softly. “But I’m also afraid of being a vampire, of hurting people...”

Later that evening, Draco holds the vial of Harry’s blood in his hands. He thinks back to this morning, waking up to Harry’s curled form on the other end of the sofa.

He drinks.

 

_For a while, I thought I had to write a romantic ending in order for the story to work, but even then I wasn't fully convinced. Then I figured out an ending that wasn’t romantic, so I scrapped this:_

On the last day of finals, Ron kneels down in front of Hermione under the apple tree by the Black Lake and asks her to marry him.

Harry and Draco are there, too. They watch from the Clock Tower as Hermione bursts into tears and clings to Ron like her life depends on it, as Ron laughs and fumbles with the ring box. And then they’re bursting through the doors and Hermione’s hugging Harry, and Harry’s crying too, and Ron looks at Draco like he can’t believe the other two, but Draco can tell he’s holding back tears.

Draco moves out, not to live with his mother but to a flat in Oxford, two blocks away from Montmorency House and the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. Dr. Rasmus Aldridge specializes in sensory alteration and spends most of his waking hours in a darkened, deadened room, so Draco has little trouble working with him, or disguising what he is. The only question that comes up is about the scars on his face, but Draco simply tells Dr. Aldridge that he tested the depressor on himself, which is true.

In the months that it takes for Draco and Dr. Aldridge to optimize the salve and submit the manuscript for publication, Ron and Hermione make the preparations for their marriage. Ron’s little Scops owl alights on Draco’s windowsill just before he leaves for work one morning, with an invitation and the usual vial of blood.

Harry, as Ron’s best man, bemoans the fact that he has to dance again, which causes Ron to scoff (“You’re not the one getting married; you can handle a dance for half a minute!”). Still, the fact remains that only Draco and Hermione really know how to dance. So they meet at the townhouse – just Harry’s house now – and put out the phonograph, push the furniture to the edges of the room. Hermione attempts to tutor Ron and his approximately four and a half left feet, and Draco teaches Harry, who is a sight more coordinated but much less enthusiastic.

“It’s just a dance with Hermione,” Draco says. “As long as you don’t step on her feet I’m sure you’ll still be friends at the end of the night.”

Draco steers Harry around and around in the waltz until he can perform the steps in his sleep.

The color of the wedding is midnight blue, so as not to clash with the red hair of half the guests. Draco and Harry Apparate to the entrance hall of the Royal Exchange, and immediately they’re swept up in the barely organized chaos that is the final hour, and then they’re getting in line and it’s starting. ~~~~

Draco watches Hermione walk up the aisle, breathtakingly beautiful, watches her and Ron exchange vows, share their first kiss as husband and wife. He hears Harry sniffle quietly beside him, but then they’re processing out again and into the reception hall and Ron and Hermione are dancing, and Ron’s so entranced by Hermione that he doesn’t notice he’s doing the steps right. And soon enough it’s Harry’s turn and after all the evenings of groaning and grousing he’s too elated to be nervous. They sit down for dinner and listen to the many toasts, and although Harry hates public speaking, he loves Ron and Hermione more. Then the ballroom floor is filled with dancing again and the room swirls around him until everything blends together in a heady mix of light and sound.

It’s well past midnight by the time the party ends. The reception hall empties steadily, and after the hundreds of guests that were here only moments ago, the quiet takes on an almost eerie quality. Draco stands in the middle of the room and looks up through the glass ceiling at the nearly full moon. He thinks of Bill, smiling brightly as he shakes hands with Hermione’s parents, cradling his baby daughter close. He thinks of stasis potions, Healer’s textbooks, spicy rabbit’s blood, warmth in the middle of the night.

He hears a sound from the corner of the room, and it’s Harry, looking a little worn, but calm. The light of the moon filters through the windows and casts strange shadows across the floor, catches Harry’s midnight blue robes and sets them alight to glittering silver.

It’s not as dark as it was in the forest. Draco sees Harry raise his wand and point it toward the phonograph beside him.

The first notes break the silence, isolated and thin, as if unsure of their right to be there. The silence is louder, and for a moment it seems as if it will win and the world will stay frozen in place forever. But then the melody settles into the air, a steady undulation that’s deceptively meek.

They come together; their fingers intertwine and Draco’s in the forest, gazing into brilliant light and soaking in warmth, and he’s not afraid, not of Harry. And as the music rises they weave through the silver and shadows, and the cold falls away, leaving only warmth behind.

And even though the music’s stopped, Draco holds on.

 


End file.
